


Let's Sing a Slaying Song Tonight

by JustAnOrdinaryFangirl



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Anxious Connor, Canon Compliant, Caring Oliver, Emotional Roller Coaster, Episode: s01e11 Best Christmas Ever, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Descriptions of the Murder Night, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Oliver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:04:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5479226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAnOrdinaryFangirl/pseuds/JustAnOrdinaryFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While talking to Oliver, he had blanked out the low-key music from the radio in the background. Christmas music. Nothing special at all, at least normally. Songs he had heard a hundred times before, songs he had heard every Christmas anew. But this year everything was different.</p><p>“Jingle bells, jingle bells,<br/>jingle all the way,<br/>oh, what fun it is to ride<br/>in an one-horse open sleigh! Hey!“</p><p>No, no, no, no, no, no. Please. Not again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Sing a Slaying Song Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Takes place in Episode 1.11. It’s the day after they watch The Thornbirds for the first time together. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own How To Get Away with Murder or the characters from this show. I am just borrowing them for a bit of fun. No profit is made with this fanfiction. I also do not own the song "Jingle Bells"; I borrowed just a part of the lyrics.

It was the morning after Conner had given Oliver the knitted hat that his grandmother made and after they had watched the first episodes of the _The Thornbirds_ together. He was painfully aware that there never used so much space between them – more than a whole sofa cushion! It was nearly unbearable.

Earlier (before he had fucked everything up, before he was aware how much he wanted to keep … this thing with Oliver going) when they chose to watch something they sat right next to each other, always touching one way or another. They would eat the takeout on the sofa, often with Connor leaning against Oliver's side or vice versa. Sometimes Connor had lied on the sofa with his head in Oliver’s lap, Oliver’s fingers carding softly through his hair, and it was so relaxing and Connor felt so infinitely safe, that more often than not he dozed off, while Oliver watched some sci-fi flick or anything similar that didn’t interest Connor anyways. And other times Oliver would snuck his freezing toes under Connor’s thigh with a fake innocent look on his face, ignoring Connor’s annoyed glare and pulling the afghan up to cover both of them. This afghan was a hideous and ugly thing that Oliver’s grandmother made once, but it was warm and cosy to Connor’s surprise. At first he detested this ugly thing, but he grew to … well, not to love it, but maybe to not hate it. Normally, he didn’t do take-out, watching TV and snuggling below a blanket, but with Oliver it hadn’t been so bad. It had almost been easy to forget that he didn’t do such things. 

Now it was nothing like then and Connor ached for the old familiarity that had been once between them. Alone the chance to maybe have something with Oliver again was too important to rush things. So he didn’t complain and kept to his side of the sofa. But just being with Oliver had such a calming effect on Connor that he fell promptly asleep. He slept peacefully for once and no nightmares like usual interrupted his sleep. Apparently, Oliver had taken pity on him, because he had let him sleep and had covered him with his afghan. (Who would have thought that he would have missed this hideous thing?) Connor didn’t wake up until the next morning. 

After an initial trip to the bathroom he shuffled somewhat awkwardly over to Oliver who was sitting already at his kitchen island and leafing through the news on his tablet PC. The radio blared softly in the background. 

“Hey. Thanks for letting me sleep here.” 

Oliver glanced up. “Yeah, you looked like you needed it. And I didn’t want you to go out into the snow without your car and everything.” He pushed a mug over to him. “Here. I made coffee.” He went back to his reading, not offering an opening to a conversation. 

Connor put his hands around the mug and took a sip. Absentmindedly, he noticed that Oliver chose automatically the one mug that Connor had claimed as his coffee mug months ago. It gave him a pleasant feeling, but apart from that he mostly felt awkward. He was unused to this feeling. He usually never felt this way, especially not with Oliver. That was one of the things that had drawn him to Oliver, actually, this easiness between them. But nothing was easy with Oliver right now. They were stuck in limbo and there was no immediate way or shortcut out of it. He had to do it the hard way.

So Connor did what he always did when he felt uneasy – he ignored it. He cleared his throat. “So, you’ve got plans for today? It’s Sunday, after all.” His voice sounded like fake even to his own ears.

It made Oliver glance up another time, however. “It’s still snowing pretty heavily … Probably, I will just lie lazily around and catch up on _Doctor Who_. Or maybe I could finally paint my bedroom.” He shrugged. 

Connor grinned. “You still haven’t gotten around to do it?”

“No. But I have at least bought the paint. It’s progress.”

They shared a tentative smile. That Oliver originally wanted to paint his bedroom, but never found the energy or the time to actually do it had been already a running joke between them before everything had gone to shit between them. Connor felt something in him ease up at the familiar banter. Maybe they were slowly getting better again, reconnecting with each other. 

“You know … I could help you. In case you want to actually paint it some day,” Connor said, daring even to wink with one eye. He would take any opportunity to be with Oliver, to keep working on this, to make them _whole_ again. 

Oliver smiled. “Thanks for the offer … We’ll see.”

“Yeah, I know. I don’t see you deciding to do it in foreseeable future either.”

“You’re an ass, Connor!”

This time they did both laugh. God, it was good to see Oliver laugh again, the way his eyes lit up along with his laugh. He still couldn’t fathom that he almost got to never see this again, that he almost lost this forever. How could he have been such an idiot? How hadn’t he realized that he wanted to keep this thing with Oliver – them – to last?

Oliver was still smiling when he asked: “Do you want a sandwich maybe? I could make you one. I have even tuna.”

He shook his head. “No, I’m good. But thanks anyway.”

Oliver looked at him with contemplating eyes. He sighed. “You need to eat more, Connor. I could swear that you look thinner than I have ever seen you before.” He dropped his gaze, avoiding Connor’s eyes. “I’m worried about you.”

Suddenly, there was a lump in Connor’s throat. “Oliver …”

Somehow that made Oliver angry apparently, because he started up. “What? How could I _not_ worry after I have seen you – after you told me … you know. _Of course_ , I worry about you. Dammit!”

The lump was getting bigger. But at the same time he felt happy that Oliver still cared that much about him. Then there was still hope.

“Oliver, everything is fine. I haven’t taken anything since then. I swear.” He wanted desperately to grasp Oliver’s hand and to squeeze it to reassure him. He had already lifted his hand, but he didn’t dare to grab it in the end and he aborted the movement in mid-air. He put his hand back around the mug. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and he continued, forcing his voice to be calm. “It’s just the stress, probably. I still have two exams to get through. Torts will be hell.” He tried to give Oliver a reassuring smile, but Oliver still looked worried. “Everything is okay, I promise. You don’t need to worry, okay?”

Oliver still didn’t make a convinced impression, although his anger seemed to have deflated already. “If you say so.”

“Yes, I say so.”

“But you still need to eat something. I am making you now a sandwich and you _will_ eat it, if you want to or not. And if I have to force it down your throat for you to eat it, I won’t care!”

“Whoa, Oliver! Hold your horses. I surrender!” Crisis avoided, thank god. And if eating a sandwich is all he needs to do to make Oliver happy for the moment, it will be a small price to pay. 

“A wise decision.” Oliver gave him a pleased, small smile and turned around to the fridge, opening it and peering into it. “So what are your plans for today? And have you heard anything regarding your car? – Oh, by the way, do you want the tuna now?”

Connor was just opening his mouth to answer, when he heard it. 

While talking to Oliver, he had blanked out the low-key music from the radio in the background. Christmas music. Nothing special at all, at least normally. Songs he had heard a hundred times before, songs he had heard every Christmas anew. But this year everything was different.

_“Jingle bells, jingle bells,_  
_jingle all the way,_  
_oh, what fun it is to ride_  
_in an one-horse open sleigh! Hey!“_

No, no, no, no, no, no.

Please. 

Not again.

 

That wasn’t the first time it happened. Back home, he had been playing with his niece and his nephew, when suddenly he became aware of this particular, cheery Christmas song and everything else just stopped ---

Jingle Bells. It was Jingle Bells playing in the background. 

And within one second he was back to that one night. He remembered Sam Keating’s bloody face, lying on the carpet in Annalise’s house and later outside in the dark. He remembered gripping the shovel –

He forced his thoughts to a halt. He was already beginning to breathe more rapidly; he felt the oncoming panic like a wave that was going to crash over him any moment now. He took deliberately a deep breath, trying to hold the wave at bay. The kids were already watching him warily. They had noticed his change in demeanour. 

“Uncle Connor? Are you alright?” His niece asked.

Oh god, he couldn’t allow himself to freak out in front of the kids. Please, just a few more moments. He forced himself to take another deep breath, praying that his voice wouldn’t break or waver. “Yes. Everything’s fine. I am back in a minute, okay?”

Then he stood up and made a dash for his old bedroom. Once there, he couldn’t manage to control his breathing any longer and he broke into a sweat. Later he couldn’t remember how he had curled himself up in a corner of his bed, hugging a pillow and making himself as small as possible. Only very slowly his breathing had turned back to normal. There were tearstains on his cheeks.

He contemplated calling Oliver. Of course, he did. His presence or at least his voice would make everything better and Oliver had done a good job in calming him down before, after that fateful night. With Oliver he was feeling safe. Oliver was his safe haven. But things with Oliver were so fragile that he didn’t dare to jeopardize it with a second panic attack. And he was not even counting the inconvenient questions Oliver would ask after such a call.

In the end he didn’t call Oliver. Even though he desperately wanted to. So he sat alone in his old bedroom in his parent’s house, waiting for his breathing to get back to normal and for the memories to vanish and for him to stop smelling the smoke and to forget how the shovel had felt in his hands … Instead, he tried to think of good memories like Oliver’s laughter and his eyes and the good times they had and would hopefully have again. 

It helped. 

The next thing he was going to do was grabbing the iPhone that was connected to their hi-fi system and deleting all songs he had sung during this night from the playlist. 

He had signed himself up for a lifelong hatred of the song Jingle Bells.

 

It was just like before. Everything just stopped – all noise, all movement, his thoughts and even Oliver. For one moment it was like floating in a void. And then the memories were crashing in on him, vast and overpowering and leaving Connor no other choice but to surrender to them. The noise was nearly unbearable.

_Sam’s face. The bloody trophy. Wes’s horrified face expression._

_The drive with the corpse in his car, him driving and singing. He even heard his own voice singing in his head: “Oh, what fun it is to ride and sing a slaying song tonight!”_

_The bonfire. The dancing, the college kids, the heat of the fire. The flash of the camera._

_“Smile … or go to jail!”_

_Their whispered, frantic discussions in the dark. Laurel. Michaela. Wes. His own manic laughter._

“Connor, breathe! You need to breathe!” Hands were gripping his arms, hard enough probably to leave finger-shaped bruises in a few hours. There was also this loud and insistent voice beside him that sounded very familiar. Right before him he saw dark, brown eyes that looked worried into his. Oliver’s eyes.

Connor didn’t register any of this. He was far away.

“Connor?”

_The shovel. The horrible stench of burnt human flesh. Sam Keating’s flesh._

_“What fun to kill someone and end up in jail …”_

_Oh god. What had they done? Fuck. What had they done? What had they done?_

_What had **he** done?_

“Connor! Please, you need to calm down. You are gonna to hyperventilate.” 

“What have I done? Oh god, I screwed up, I screwed up so bad.”

In his head there was only room for this question – what had _he_ done?! –, being only very vaguely aware what happened around him. It was like noticing everything through a thick fog; he saw and he didn’t saw, not really, anyway. He didn’t quite manage to grasp and hold on to the things he saw.

But there was suddenly Oliver’s voice that managed to penetrate the heavy fog which surrounded Connor’s mind; grounding him again to the here and now like an anchor. “Connor, I need you to listen to me. … We going to breath together, okay? I help you. Just concentrate on breathing. …” Oliver’s right hand moved from his shoulder to grab one of Connor’s hands and he lead it to his own chest. “Here, can you feel my heartbeat? Feel the rhythm. And now we are going to breath to this rhythm, okay? In. Out.”

Maybe he could do that. Just listen and doing what Oliver’s voice told him to do. He would do everything for Oliver. Oliver meant safety; with Oliver he was always safe. He could trust Oliver. Oliver knew probably best. 

“In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Yeah, you are doing well. And again: in, out.”

Slowly, everything came back into focus. Oliver’s eyes were right in front of him, only a few inches away. He had looked the whole time into his eyes, but without actually seeing him. Only then he noticed how concerned and alarmed Oliver looked, how Oliver’s gaze didn’t waver away from him for one second. Finally, he registered also that Oliver’s right hand was gripping his own and pressing it to his own chest, his heartbeat pounding steadily and rhythmically beneath both their palms. Oliver’s other hand still clutched Connor’s shoulder as though he was afraid that Connor might bolt from him any second, if he loosened his hold on him. His grip was so hard that on his shoulder would be bruises in the next morning. They were both half kneeling, half sitting on the floor near the kitchen island. He felt the cold emanating from the hard floor.

He felt the grounding effect that Oliver’s voice had on him and gradually he managed to get his breathing back under control. He followed Oliver’s breathing instructions still, afraid that it might set him off again, if he stopped just for a second. But eventually he decided that his panic attack had passed. The memory flashbacks were gone, too. He was again in the here and now, completely. He cleared his throat. “I think we can stop. It should be okay now.”

Oliver obeyed, but continued to keep Connor’s hand clutched to his chest. He also still looked worried. Connor couldn’t exactly blame him; it had been a bad attack, worse than the one he had had back home a few days earlier. “You sure?” Oliver asked.

“Yeah”, he said. Only then he noticed that his cheeks were damp with tearstains. Great. As though another panic attack hadn’t been enough for Oliver to witness. He moved his free hand up to his face and dried the stains with the sleeve of his shirt. His left hand was still pressed against Oliver’s chest. “Um, Oliver, could I have my hand back?”

“Um, right. Sorry.” Oliver released Connor’s hand reluctantly and loosened his grip on Connor’s shoulder. His thumb stroked softly the skin as if to further reassure and ground Connor. 

Connor avoided Oliver’s look, he couldn’t almost bear to look into Oliver’s eyes. It had been bad enough that Oliver had to witness his first panic attack and to see him all weak and freaked out. He had wanted to put this whole mess behind them and move on, together with Oliver. That had been the plan. Oliver was pure and innocent and, to be honest, the only good thing in his life at the moment. For once in his life he wanted to keep something, no, to keep someone by his side and to hold onto that person, because they make everything better and lighter again. Oliver had been that person for him, even though he had been too stupid in the past to realize that, blinded by his commitment phobia and what else. 

And now he had messed this up again.

Damn his whole life.

He swallowed heavily. He still couldn’t look into Oliver’s eyes. “I am sorry, Oliver,” he said quietly into the silence, his voice scratchy. 

“It’s not your fault.” Oliver squeezed his shoulder briefly. “Can I ask … um, what triggered it?” Oliver asked, tripping nearly over the words. When Connor glanced up, he also hastened to add quickly: “I mean, just for the future. I don’t want to pry. Obviously. Only that I can be sure to avoid it and that nothing will set you off again. Um.” Oliver looked at him nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

Connor stared dumbstruck. Oliver said _in the future_. Oliver planned on keeping him around, maybe even to be with him again in the future. Maybe even to be boyfriends again, this time around officially. That meant that he hadn’t fucked everything up with Oliver yet. 

Hallelujah.

He couldn’t believe his luck. He also wanted to kiss Oliver desperately, now more than ever before.

“Connor?” Oliver prompted.

Oh, he still had to answer his question. “It was the song,” he said and before Oliver could ask further, he continued. “It was Jingle Bells. The song … holds bad memories.”

In Oliver’s eyes he saw even more questions – Had this something to do with the one night Connor turned up at his door? What had happened that night? What had _he_ done? –, but Oliver didn’t voice any of them. Connor is sure that he wouldn’t forget these questions, though it seemed that Oliver decided that he didn’t want to put Connor through it right now. Connor stifled a sigh; he had to think about a solution for this problem. He couldn’t tell Oliver the truth, obviously, but he also didn’t want to continue to lie to him. Not anymore. He would think of something, he just had to.

“It’s okay, Oliver. I’ll deal with it. You won’t have to see that again.”

At that Oliver frowned. “Connor,” he said slowly, but distinctly. “You don’t have to deal with it alone. That’s what I am here for. I want to help you. You are not in this alone.” Oliver squeezed his shoulder again, this time more insistently. “We’ll fight this, okay? We’ll deal with it together.”

“Oliver …” He didn’t know what else to say or how to express the gratitude he was feeling. His whole life had consisted of him dealing with his shit alone. It had _always_ been that way; Connor didn’t know any different. Now, it was new and scary and _wonderful_ that actually someone wanted to be there for him.

Dear god, what was even scarier that _he_ wanted to be there for _Oliver_ , too.

At Connor’s obvious being at a loss for words, Oliver smiled tentatively. “Hey, you wanna keep me company lazing around the apartment? I haven’t gotten around to watch the latest episodes of _The Big Bang Theory_ , too. You up for that?”

Connor knew exactly what Oliver was trying to achieve here: distracting him and keeping him grounded by offering company. He felt like bursting into a huge smile. Yes, maybe he could get behind that whole being-there-for-each-other-thing and one day he would be there for Oliver. Yes, he could definitely get behind that. Oliver was becoming slowly but steadily his sun and he was the planet orbiting around it. 

His answering smile matched Oliver’s. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Good.” Oliver gave his shoulder one last squeeze, and then he helped Connor up from the floor. Their joints made loud noises; they had been sitting on the floor far too long. Oliver grasped Connor’s wrist and led him over to his sofa. He queued up Netflix, while they got comfortable on the sofa. Connor made sure to leave enough space between them – he had inflicted himself on Oliver enough for one day and he was still aware of the delicate balance between them –, but Oliver reached over, grabbed his wrist again and pulled him over to him. He arranged them both on the sofa to his liking and Connor just let him do it, secretly thrilled that Oliver overruled the no touching rule he had set up the night before. Oliver tugged at him insistently and, finally, Connor landed with his head in Oliver’s lap like many dozen times in the past before, cushioned with a pillow. The infamous afghan was pulled up soon after and Oliver tucked it neatly around them, until they were both warm and cosy and completely _familiar_. All the familiarity and easiness that he had missed the whole evening before was now present again and in this moment Connor could have wept with relief. Maybe their chances at being together again were bigger than he had dared to let himself hope.

An episode started playing, but Connor paid it no mind, because a hand had pushed into his hair. Fingers were carding through the strands, caressing them tenderly and affectionately. He heaved out a sigh as all the tension he hadn’t known he possessed left suddenly his body. Finally, he felt safe. Connor began slowly to understand how lucky he actually was to have somebody as amazing as Oliver and that he still wanted something to do with him after everything he had put him through before. That was why Connor buried his nose further into the pillow that smelled faintly of Oliver and laid a hand on Oliver’s leg near his knee, nearly grasping it. He didn’t plan on letting Oliver go anytime soon. 

And just like all the times before, Connor felt so relaxed and cosy and safe that he fell asleep. And so he slept, Oliver’s hand absentmindedly petting his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, gotta say Connor is much more complicated to write than Oliver, especially this conflicted and panicky Connor. I hope I did him (and Oliver, too) justice and that I managed to capture this awkward state of limbo they have going on in this episode. It was nearly killing me not resolve this and to make them instantly happy together again … But we all know how it went on with them, so this isn’t too bad :D 
> 
> Originally, I wanted to write just a small scene how Connor freaks out to Jingle Bells … and then it took on a life of its own. Also, I need to say that I am by no means an expert on panic attacks and on how to deal with them. I hope I didn’t make some grand mistake – otherwise, sorry. I wrote this fic how I imagined this all could happen.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked it :-)


End file.
